CIRCLES OF STONE (THE MOTHER PEOPLE SERIES) (49 page)

"Where is
Conar?"  It was Lune's voice.  She had watched Conar, had seen
how he followed Tron everywhere, even though Tron never knew.  He would
know where Tron was.

Bakan shook his
head.  "I have not seen Conar."

Lune pressed her
fingers against her mouth as she ran, to keep from crying out. She could feel
it, feel that something had happened to Zena.

Her heart thudded
with joy when she saw Zena standing by the fire.  Then her eyes took in
the whole scene, and she gasped in horror.  Blood covered Zena's hands,
and her face was swollen and bruised.  Nevilar was worse.  She was
groaning, rocking herself back and forth in agony, and when she looked up, Lune
saw that one of her eyes was black, and blood dribbled from her mouth. 
The scene on the ground was appalling.  Conar lay still as death, his face
gray.  As she watched, he began to choke and spit, trying to breathe. 
Lune ran to him and raised his head, wondering why Zena had not come to him
first.  She was right beside him.

Something else was
beside him.  Lune glanced at the still form, and closed her eyes in
agony.  It was Tron - except it was not Tron anymore.  He was dead;
she was certain of it, for his skull was a mass of blood.  She did not
look again. 

How had he
died?  Had Conar killed him?  But that could not be... Lune's
thoughts raced, and then her eyes darted again to Zena.  She had not
moved.  She stood there, as still as if she were made of stone. 
Menta was standing before her, with a look of absolute pity on her face.

"You must
tell us what happened."  Menta's voice was soft, compelling, but Zena
did not answer.  Her eyes were focused inward, and she did not seem to
hear Menta's question, or even to notice that they had come. 

Menta went to
Nevilar and took her face in her hands, so that she would have to look up.

"It is my
fault,"  Nevilar sobbed.  "I have made these terrible
things happen because I disobeyed the Mother.  It is all my fault. 
You must send me away, banish me!"

Menta frowned,
puzzled, then her eyes narrowed as she began to guess.  She had wondered
what was bothering Nevilar.  The girl had been unhappy, nervous, as if she
were doing something she should not do.  She had been bruised too. 
Was it possible Tron had inflicted the bruises?   With a shock of
recognition as sharp as a physical blow, Menta realized it was
true.   She had not known such cruelty was possible, except in the visions.

Zena's voice, cold
and hard, cut into her thoughts.  "No, Nevilar.  Yours is not
the fault.  It is mine.  I have killed Tron, and that is a sin
against the Mother far greater than Akat.  To kill another is forbidden,
but to kill in anger is worse, and can never be forgiven.  That is the
worst sin of all, and that is what I have done."

Zena's words hung
in the air.  No one knew how to respond.  Even Menta's voice was
stilled, for she knew Zena spoke the truth.  To kill in anger was
violence, and that the Mother did not tolerate.  All else but violence,
She would forgive.

Menta's heart sank
within her.  This was the beginning. Because Tron was violent, because one
single man was violent, they would all suffer.  Zena would suffer most of
all.  

"No." 
Lune's voice was passionate, filled with courage.  "That is not
right.  Zena may have killed in anger, but she has not killed for no
reason.  Tron was dangerous to all of us.  Perhaps this is what the
Mother intended her to do.  Perhaps by killing Tron, Zena has saved us,
and all who will come after, from the violence Menta has foreseen." 

Lune moved
forcefully toward Zena and stood before her.  "You must think of
this, too, that you have served the Mother by your actions.  When violence
comes, perhaps we must meet it with violence."

Menta felt the
Mother's hand heavy on her heart.  Lune's argument was persuasive, but she
did not think it was right.  No peace would come to them through Tron's
death.  Whatever the cause, violence only brought more violence.

Fear gripped her
abruptly.  For the first time in many years, she did not know what to
do.  Never before had one of them killed another.  She shook her
head, as if to throw off the burden of responsibility she carried.  Then,
just as quickly, she straightened her shoulders and forced the fear away. 
She was their wise one, and she would deal with the terror of this
happening.  The Mother would show her what to do.

"I must hear
why this has happened," she said.  "Before blame is cast, we
must know.  As Lune says, it may be that your action has kept the violence
from coming. We must listen for the Mother if we hope to understand.

"Come. 
We will return to the clearing, where all can hear.  Then we will
decide."

Bakan and Tragar
hoisted Tron into their arms.  Menta put an arm around the still-sobbing
Nevilar and led her away, and Lune supported Conar.  His ragged breathing
contrasted loudly with Nevilar's sobs.  Zena followed, glad no one had
come close enough to touch her.  She did not want to be touched
again.  She was alone now, separate from the others in some strange way
she could not identify.  She must stay that way if she was to survive.

The knowledge
remained with her all through the proceedings that evening, through the day
that followed.  She barely heard Lune's brave defense of her actions, a
defense enthusiastically seconded by Katli and Bakan and the others.  Zena
might have killed in anger, but she had also killed to save Conar's life,
perhaps her own and Nevilar's as well.  Besides, Tron had violated her, as
he had violated Pila, would no doubt have violated others.  To abuse the
gift of Akat in this way was a sin almost as great as killing.  And as the
Mother Herself had said, Tron threatened not just them, but many who had not
yet been born.  It was good that he was dead.

With Nevilar, the
council was not so generous.  To have disobeyed Menta and the Mother could
be forgiven, if she was truly sorry, but to have permitted herself to be so
abused by Tron would take longer to forgive.  There is no love, no caring,
in such attention, they told her.  In having so little respect for
yourself, you show disrespect for the Mother as well.  You are part of the
Mother, and when you allow Tron to abuse you, to hit you and force Akat upon
you, by frightening you, you also allow him to violate the Mother.  Even
if you desire it, Akat must never be done because of fear.  For this, you
must apologize, until you understand it in your heart.

The council
decided that she would be required to go to the Ekali with the other women at
the time of bleeding, as well as in the middle of her cycle, for one full
season of warmth and cold.  Nevilar protested wildly, for she never wanted
to go to the Ekali again, and now she must go twice as often.  The council
did not relent.  Only in the Ekali with all the other women, they told
her, could she learn how in caring for themselves and each other, they cared
for the Mother.  Nevilar finally agreed, but Menta wondered if she truly
understood.  Something was lacking in Nevilar, as it had been in
Tron.  He had been unable to care for others, but Nevilar seemed unable to
care for herself, as if some internal core that should have told her she was
worthy of respect was missing.

"Almost,"
she told Lune, "I worry about what is lacking in Nevilar as much as I
worried about Tron's lack of caring.  What if none of us felt worthy of
respect and permitted those who were stronger to abuse us?"

Lune nodded, but
she did not answer.  Her mind was on Zena, not Nevilar.  Another full
day had passed since the council had decided no action should be taken against
her, and still Zena had hardly spoken.  Worse, she kept herself apart from
everyone, as if she did not believe she was still one of the tribe.  The
others reassured themselves that she was still in a state of shock and 
just needed time to recover.  Lune was not so sure.

Menta, too, knew
this was not true, but she did not speak of her fears.  The tragedy that
was playing itself out was in the Mother's hands now, and Zena's, and she could
only watch.  Nor did she express her thoughts about Tron's death. 
She knew in her heart that to meet violence with violence was not the Mother's
way, but she did not blame Zena for her act.  Probably she would have
acted in a similar way, had she been faced with Tron's cruelty.  Instead,
she felt a deep, burning sympathy for Zena.  She would judge herself more
harshly than any.

Menta was
right.  Zena had paid little attention to the council's verdict, for she
had reached her own, and theirs was irrelevant.  The tribe had not
banished her, so she would banish herself.  That was the Mother's
will.  She must be apart from others until the Mother decreed that she
could return. 

That night, when
all the others were asleep, she slipped away.  She went first to a place in
the woods where she had hidden her tools and flints and an extra fur garment,
wrapped in a bag of tough animal skin.  Food and water she could find as
she wandered, but the other items were essential to her survival, especially
now that winter had almost come.  Then she turned and headed west, toward
the mountains she had seen in her dream.  She was not sure why she went in
that direction, except that the dream seemed to pull her.

Conar had been in
the dream, but he would not be with her now.  For the first time since
Tron's death, tears came to Zena's eyes.  Ever since their first mating,
she had felt a special bond with Conar.  He must have felt it as well, for
he had tried to defend her, had risked his life and almost lost it for
her. 

She thrust him out
of her mind.  Of Lune and Menta and the others, of the desolation that
would come to their faces when they saw that she had left, she dared not think
at all.  She must not, lest her resolve falter.

For a few hours,
she was able to move quickly through the familiar woods, though the moon was
still little more than a sliver.  Then she began to stumble.  Her
legs were tiring, her steps uncertain, for she had come out of the area she
knew into rough terrain of jumbled stones and rocky hillsides.  Still, she
dared not stop to rest. By the time the light came again, she had to be far
enough away so the others could not find her. 

She blundered on,
falling often now from weariness.  Her mind felt strange, far away. 
Since Tron's death, she had hardly slept and had eaten almost nothing. 
She had not felt hunger, and when she had tried to eat, the food had seemed to
stick in her throat.  Even when she moistened it with water, she could not
make it go down. Words stuck there, too, as if her throat had closed with the
horror of the act she had committed.

The sliver of moon
slid behind a cloud and plunged her into total darkness just as she started
down a steep hill.  She tripped and fell heavily.  Rocks bruised her
arms and shoulders as she rolled over and over, unable to stop the fall. 
She landed with a thump in a shallow hole.  Too tired now even to think of
moving again, she wrapped herself in both furs and lay where she was, grateful
for even this minimal shelter.  Her fingers were numb with cold, but at
least here the wind did not reach her.

She dozed fitfully
until fingers of light began to creep across the sky.  Now she could see
that she had fallen into a hole left by the roots of a big overturned
tree.  Wearily, she rose to continue her journey. 

Below her a wide
valley stretched away to the west.  She had never seen it before, though
she was sure the river that rippled through it was the same river that wound
almost all the way to their clearing.  Huge herds of animals, reindeer and
antelopes, and bison with rounded shoulders covered in thickly matted fur,
grazed peacefully in the distance.  Along the river were wide branched
trees festooned with late-ripening fruit and nuts. 

Suddenly hungry,
she ran down the slope.  Her throat opened easily for the soft purple
fruit, though the nuts were harder.  She took some with her, for they
traveled better than fruit, hoping she would be able to eat them later. 
Nuts gave strength, and she would need much strength for her journey.

All day, she
followed the river upstream.  She felt safer now, for she was far from the
places her tribe usually roamed.  They went south along the other branch
of the river, or north into the treeless tundra, following the herds, instead
of heading west toward the mountains as she was doing.  There were more
animals there, the hunters said, though Zena wondered if it was true. 
Surely, there were as many bison and reindeer here as in the places they
usually hunted.

She could see the
mountains clearly now.  Their peaks were already covered with snow and
glistened in the sunlight.  Below them were craggy foothills, softened by
a thin covering of green.  It was these low hills, even more than the high
mountains, that seemed to draw her.  She stared at them, felt them pull at
her, as if they expected her.

A band of horses
galloped by, distracting her.  She loved their flying manes and tails,
their wondrous grace.  Zena moved slowly after them, her senses lulled by
the smell of trampled earth and fruit and ripened grains, her mind made drowsy
by the sun on her shoulders, the feeling of fullness in her belly after days
without food.  She walked without thinking, hardly knowing where she
went. 

Abruptly,
alertness returned.  She had almost walked into the river, for it had
turned sharply back upon itself, blocking her way.  She peered ahead,
trying to see if it would change course and go west again, but hills and trees
obscured her view.  She kept going for a time, but with every step she
took in the wrong direction, the foothills seemed to pull her more
strongly. 

She would have to
cross the river.  There was no other way.  Zena went back to the
place where the river turned.  It was broad and fast moving, but at least
the water was low at this time of year.  Timidly, she poked her toes in
the swirling current.  It was not so deep; she could see the bottom most
of the way across.  Pulling the fur from her shoulders, she stuffed it
into her bag and waded in, holding the bag above her head.  The cold
numbed her legs, but the footing was all right.  She took another step,
then another, until the water reached her shoulders.  Suddenly, there was
nothing beneath her feet.  Zena flailed wildly as the current caught her
and dragged her back the way she had come, away from the mountains. 
Kicking furiously, she struggled against it.  She could not let the river
take her back.